Tag: back in the day

Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding. The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate. And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).

Considering Nobility oil

Is there a better day in this “there was a better day”, “back-in-the-day” era? The question is probably better “is there a greater day to remember?” A day when the oligarchy was noble, above all, in some auric glow of past splendor (we confuse with the present). When our superiors were Nobles, and acted with noblesse oblige.

The eagle, whether perched or on wing, searches for the weak, the inattentive, the injured, for an eagle’s sustenance. Flying here over our rivers gently flowing they have the attributes of gods; power, majesty, floating upwards without borderlands.

Eagles flying, gold burnished, the eagle abstracted to emblem, logo, or symbol posted on commerce and political ascendency. Compressed emotions to symbolic standards for those membered, who claim charts of nobility as a decantation of heroic acts; whereas the lessers died without gift of a position. Noble authority didn’t mine the gold nor form and burnish it, but they wear it and are housed in it; a world liquid in unexplored vanity, unexplored despair.

Imagining the wings and gold as attainable and usable attributes; some emotive artificers seek to mimic the gods in the pursuit of sovereignty. Presumably they bequest a benediction on those in subservience, on the borderlands of obscurity and living remembrance. And yet seeking supremacy is not the Holy Grail, certainly not the one from which the Blood of the Lamb pours.

Aha Young Men oil

A fool was not a Noble, but many who claim a noble’s elite rights are fools, and so even here where winter leaves no fragrance, fresh or rotted, young men prefer the artifice of noble folly.

It is winter here on the prairie where we are wrapped in wind and whipping canvas, the former circus tent, now home to the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture. The winter light is brightening a bit, a week plus after the early dismissal of the sun. Back then the world came to the end of its’ wobble, then started over again. Now, a lengthening winter sun is not the same thing as a warmer sun, only a more promising sun, it is still cold.

Tent shelter in winter…a bit chilly, no insulation. Swirling snow (although very lovely) blows in, hot air goes to the top, while the people at the bottom cuddle lit emotion bombs, these artistics crunch closer and closer, erratic opinions drafted in chilled tensions find a topic. The more verbally endowed articulators (poetic/prosey types) anxious for even this bit of fame, begin to declaim on…,,,…comas.

Comas, those old-school upside-down bombs, incomprehensibly-absolutist little dictatorial-divisive-connections interspersing the written as directions, or, governance to – how we speak, or how we mean – something. Instincts re-form the vocalizers; visceral high school psyches face rational-comma subgroups, and concurrently, the threats of little emotion bombs.

Older attendees proffer commas as the output of medieval theological speculation, where a threesome of ideas becomes- a point: to whit, and therefore, – uh, ah, oh, – commas; or something like that. Ergo, comma tyrants claw with religious tenacity as arguments develop. The noise is vibrated aloft into the winds.

While the big comma, winter wind, forms a grip on outdoor activities, arguing anarchists and grammar-lords fill time inside. Smoking enfant terribles enjoy the separation from the grammarians more than the nicotine, banished, like back-in-the-day.d

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On an official note: a new Deciders Quorum has been appointed.

Due to rules thy are first formally presented by their hobby-horse head personae, to whit…

Better to be discussed next Saturday, disagreements already exist over new authorities, and, the issues are greater than grammar…

Dressing For The Winter Dance Herb Eaton
My Friends,
aren’t we awaiting The Winter Dance,
the enchantment of an attending beauty
accompanying our follies and awkward gyrations
up marvelous stairs, isolated
from the cold?

My Friends,
aren’t we all a bit distorted, maybe nervous and convoluted,
doing a graceless dance
while arranging our new
dull and wrinkled layers?

My Friends,
won’t it be nice, The Dance Hall,
as our crinkling outer wraps are shed,
lead by an honor guard past our
pretty and petty pride,
thankful to be a living corsage
to serve Beauty.
My Friends,
isn’t it best to joyfully dance
until the tune ends?

Frost has sharped the chord of these days at the end of the middle season, stacked hierarchal: frost, some warmth, chilled darkness. The sun is now low, mellow, dropping over the horizon with the settling purple mist; putting the tent and crib in a minor key. Back in the day circus-bands filled our tent, now being reused for our reunion. Outdoors the winds have returned and so we are seeking to use this space more fully, even if the audience is largely a chilled mural painted warm.

We are trying to take notes, hand-writen on 3×5 cards, in order to record the dialogue here at the reunion. Our notes (meant for dialogue in short plays to be produced during this reunion) include a significant number of expressions beginning with, “Back in the day…” to which is added some proof-of-knowing utterance. “Back-in-the-day”… plus the ideal life as it should have been (or worse than it ever was). Enfant terribles and anarchists are apt to gesture widely about some unendurable disgrace “Back-In-The-Day!…”; remembering why they have those emotion bombs. Emotive’s convoluting sentences, history, logic structures, and interchanging superstitions, dramatized into whatever that “day” was. This seems like stuff for theater!

From the out-set (back in the day) we have been trying for a feeling of bon homme gentility, so that all can benefit while sharing this grand theater. , “back in the day…” expressions have introduced script ideas by generic geniuses from both sides of the grave, many concerning social more than theatrical roles.

Some,”Back in the day…”, expressors emanate expressions so droll as to embrace condescending sympathies. Some point a terrible infant’s attitude toward hierarchies and embrace the caustic use of words and postures.

As it is, “back in the day ” theatricals will be here this winter. Now, posturing for character parts in the unwritten theatricals, anarchists try (to a degree) to be nonchalant and disinterested (cool).

To whit, attempting to influence discreetly; so as not to be stuck in a previously discarded drama from, “Back in the day…”